We're all wondering where we went wrong,
Thumbing through our files
And putting old records on.

Did we spend too much time on the road?
Are the lines we dread the ones we wrote?
Would it have been easier if we had considered
Growing old?

No love is little,
even if it was short lived.

I can still remember the smell of your hair
Juniper and cypress
I loved you to death

If I feel the dread sink any lower in my stomach,
I might shipwreck,
Still so dizzy from the mess he left

He requires less sleep than I,
Brighter Eyes
And at the very least,
I kept myself alive to meet him.

It is not to abandon reason.
It is not to rip through calloused leather;
If it is a release,
It is an exhale.
Truth, in any realm,
Is not to wrestle with my conscious.

Can we honor the life that comes
Without honoring the life from
Whence it came?
When life becomes,
Is she the widened legs of shame?
For my own mother made me
As an extension of her own pleasure
I owe my blood
To her sexuality
For hers is the life
From whence I came.
And when we hold a child with high regard;
Revere the blood that pushes it veins,
Do we give the honor to its own heart
Or do we thank the blood
From whence we came?

I heard you passing out sincere apologies
Hoping one of them would get around to me
I lie awake at night
Without you on my mind
But I have four years worth of excuses
If you would say sorry
I might find a place to store them